Cold Tongues

Looking for a place where you might
turn off the inner dialogue and sit
empty without regrets?
I know that burned witches,
their skin seared off to a life of
weightless wonder, don’t really
listen anymore. Their minds
have become roots buried
deep in the sky. You can
watch them uncoil their sunless
colors like rivers of serpents
burning cloud rims.

You could hide yourself in the
foliage, bury yourself under
talking leaves, they will
distract your minds.
Their echoes multiply and divide
your chaos in a bed of
cold tongues; still, where is
the silence?

Everyone is perishable; to
perish is to enter into silence and
never return. How do you feel about that?
Ah yes- extreme, you say; to go from a frantic chorus of singing
harlots to a null so deep even God can’t hear
what you’re thinking.

I’m glad you haven’t found it.
My greatest happiness is to watch you
squirm with your regrets
buzzing about you like the kind of ants
that eat chicks alive, especially their eyes.
And to hear your thoughts that translate into
smallpox and polio
before the discovery of vaccines.